


A Free Man

by sparklyslug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Pre-Slash, Rape/Non-con References, and i have a lot of feelings about fictional monks, athelstan is just trying to make this work, because this show is perfect, threesome as exists in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/pseuds/sparklyslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>May I ask you something? Am I still your slave?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>An Athelstan character study, filling in the gaps between Ragnar and Athelstan's conversation in "Raid."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Free Man

 

_May I ask you something? Am I still your slave?_

 

“And he did _what_?” Rollo half-laughs. 

“Left the priest to watch over me and Gyda,” Bjorn is saying. It started as a complaint, maybe, but now he’s glancing over at where Athelstan is mending (clumsily) an old shirt of Ragnar’s, a reluctant note in his voice. “While you all were on the raid.”

They seem to think, just because they’re not bothering to slow their speech and because Athelstan is on the other side of the room, that he can’t understand or hear them. But he can do both. Monasteries are quiet places; Athelstan’s well-used to picking out the softest whisper from the back pew of their chapel. And he understands more and more every day. He hasn’t much choice: there’s no one left for him to speak Saxon with, now. Sometimes he speaks it out loud, just to hear the words again. But always when he’s sure no one is near enough to hear him. 

“He did say as much to me, when he told me your mother was coming along” Rollo says, “but I assumed he was joking.”

“Father doesn’t joke when it comes to us,” Bjorn says, affronted on Ragnar’s behalf. 

“That’s why I assumed he wasn’t serious,” Rollo says. 

“Is it... right?” Bjorn asks. “For a slave to... you know?”

“The priest is your father’s slave,” Rollo says shortly. “If he and your mother say what he does is right, it is right.”

But his eyes stay on Athelstan, tracking the priest’s movements until Athelstan flees for the relative safety of the stables. 

 

_Does it matter?_

_It matters because I’ve noticed that in your world, slaves are often treated worse than dogs._

 

“He looks in good health,” the other man (Hulde? Hurde? Names, names are harder for Athelstan to pick up, and harder still for him to pin to the correct owner). “Not terribly strong, though.”

“Strong enough for the use he’s put to, I’d say,” his companion says. They’re both leaning against the short fence outside the smithy. Ragnar is inside, having told Athelstan to stand outside and wait. 

Athelstan wishes he would hurry. 

“Saw the others strung up, did you?” Hulde says. “They didn’t last long.”

“Must not have been as obliging as this one,” the other says. “Or maybe just not as pretty.”

“Easy,” Hulde says, a casual chide without much heat behind it. “Audun had the lean one, the crying one.” _Cyneric_ , Athlestan thinks with a sharp pang of grief. _Must have been._

“Oh?”

“Useless,” Hulde says easily. “Some slaves, you can’t even beat the simplest knowledge into them. Audun tried his best. Had no choice at the end.”

“This one’s lingered though. Think Ragnar’ll give me a turn with him?”

Hulde shrugs, “Worth asking. Doesn’t look like he’s much banged up, so it’s likely he doesn’t put up a fight when Ragnar—”

“Not too bored, are you?” Athelstan hadn’t heard Ragnar come up behind him. “Let’s go.”

“Alright,” Athelstan says, a bit unsteadily. 

“Are you unwell?” Ragnar asks, peering into Athelstan’s eyes. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were, Gyda’s cooking has turned the stomach of—”

“I’m fine,” Athelstan says shortly. 

“If you say so,” Ragnar says, but still looks at him consideringly. “Let’s go home, then.”

Hulde and his friend show no surprise to hear Athelstan speaking their language, eyes sliding over him to trade nods with Ragnar as they pass.  

 Because they knew all along, Athelstan realizes. Of course, they must have done. All the people that he’s met, all those that Ragnar has bragged to— how many under Haraldson’s domain do not know of the captured monk who can speak the language of the Northmen?

They knew he could understand them. They just hadn’t cared.

 

  _Do I treat you like a dog?_

_That’s not my point._

 

Athelstan wakes with the scream halfway through his throat, hands fisted into tight claws in his rough blanket. 

The central figure of his nightmare is kneeling next to him, one hand on his shoulder. He’s dressed only in the short linen pants that seem to make up his bedclothes. When he bothers to wear them. Athelstan jerks at the touch, sitting up quickly, though Ragnar doesn’t let go of him.

“Hush,” Ragnar says, but not cruelly. “You’ll wake the children.”

Athelstan stares at him, trying to get his breathing under control. How long ago was it, that he was staring for the first time into a face daubed with red, those utterly alien eyes on him and a knife tip pressing under his chin? When did that demon become _this_ , lit by the soft light of a dying fire, hair rumpled, muzzy-eyed with sleep?

“Here now,” Lagertha appears on his other side. She doesn’t touch him, but sits close and passes him a cup of something warm. “Just a dream, priest.”

She’s wearing a light shift too, mercifully. _Though,_ a sinful part of Athelstan whispers as he sips the drink (sweet, heady, almost certain to make him woozy in a bit), _if they were naked it would at least be something of a distraction._ He glances to the side, where he can just see the cover of the book sticking out from under his cot. He won’t reach for it, uncertain now whether or not they’d laugh at him for the gesture. But the sight of it comforts him. 

Ragnar’s hand is still on his shoulder. “What do you dream of?” He asks, the tone of curiosity one that Athelstan knows well by now. Well enough to be wary of it. 

Athelstan looks at him over the edge of his cup, but before he can answer Lagertha cuts in. “Of ogres forcing him to bathe a little more often, what do you think?” She shifts a little closer, and softens with a smile. “Or maybe of Bjorn sacrificing him to Thor.”

“He hasn’t given up on that, you know,” Ragnar says, seriously. “Watch yourself, priest. He is not so big as you, perhaps. But he takes his sacrifices very seriously.”

“I know,” Athelstan says, dryly. He sets the cup to the side. “Believe me.”

“He likes you,” Lagertha says. Athelstan turns to her, and raises an eyebrow. He glances at Ragnar, who looks equally skeptical. “What? He does,” Lagertha says stubbornly. “I can tell these things. Bjorn likes you, priest. Very much.”

“He doesn’t seem—”

“I don’t like _any_ of you at the moment,” Bjorn’s voice cuts across the room. “What hour do you think this is?”

Ragnar and Lagertha share a grin. 

“We’re in trouble now,” Ragnar says in a hushed whisper, leaning in close. “See what you’ve done, priest?”

Athelstan blinks, and frowns at him. Ragnar just smiles. 

“Will you be alright?” Lagertha asks him. And for a moment Athelstan can't even think what she’s talking about. 

“Oh,” he says. Remembering. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

“You know you’re always welcome to our bed,” she tells him. Athelstan’s mouth goes dry. “Night terrors are easiest to face when you’re not sleeping alone.”

“Yes. Well,” he swallows. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do,” Ragnar says. He’s got _that_ look in his face, the one that Athelstan thinks he’ll never get used to. Even if it is how Ragnar has looked at him from the very beginning, when he was still a nightmare made flesh, ripping his way out of a sermon and into Athelstan’s life. He didn't understand the look at all, then. He was just terrified. He understands a little better now, or is starting too. But it isn't much less terrifying.

Ragnar squeezes Athelstan’s shoulder again before getting up, and moving with Lagertha back to the bed they share. 

Athelstan watches them go. And when he sleeps again, he sleeps dreamlessly. 

 

_In any case, why do you say ‘your world,’? You live here now. This is your world. And I’ve never seen you try to escape._

 

Athelstan stands on the river’s edge. His tonsure is growing in, but in such a way that it itches like mad. It’s not a familiar feeling to him— he can’t even remember the last time his hair grew like this— so it seems as though he’s always absently scratching at his fuzzy scalp now. 

It’s turning cold. With a hard bite behind it, something that promises an even harsher winter than those that had bloomed in the stone walls and floors of Lindisfarne. Still, he leaves off his brown cowl and robe more often than not. Lagertha has given him thicker, warmer clothes to wear. They seem to fit this world better. Fit him better, perhaps. Or will. One day. Whether he’d like them to or not. 

He hears the noise coming. Something he’s getting better at, a little: reading the sounds of the woods and wild around him, able to tell when someone’s running through the brush towards him. 

But he’s not afraid. Maybe because he suspects who it is that’s heading towards him now. 

“There you are,” Ragnar says, when he breaks out of the tree line and jogs up to Athelstan. Breathing harder than he should be; it’s unlike him to be winded, or to show signs of it. “Where have you been?”

Athelstan frowns at him. “I’m sorry. Just— looking for herbs, the ones Lagertha said grew around here, I forget what she called them—”

“We expected you home sooner,” Ragnar says, scowling. 

“I lost track of time,” Athelstan admits. A thought strikes him. “Did you come looking for—”

“Come, it’s getting late,” Ragnar interrupts. As Athelstan had half-thought he would. “I need your help with dinner.”

“Alright,” Athelstan says, scratching again at his scalp. 

“And stop that itching, you look as though you’ve got plague,” Ragnar says crossly. He starts off back towards the farm. And checks behind him just once, to make sure Athelstan is following. Then he doesn’t look back again. 

 

_I’m less and less interested in escaping now. Even if I could._

 

Gyda passes him a maple candy, perfectly stamped into the shape of a leaf and still warm. Athelstan turns it over in his fingers for a few moments, enjoying the feel and look of it. But he can’t resist for long, and brings it up to nibble at one edge. The candy crumbles in his mouth, melting on his tongue. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the sweetness tug a smile onto his face. 

“Know where that road goes?” Gyda asks, through a mouthful of candy. 

He opens his eyes to see her pointing at the road curving out from under the fence post they’re sitting on and out of sight. Winding up into the mountains, Athelstan would guess. 

“No,” Athelstan swallows the rest of the maple candy. “Where does it go?”

He’s hoping for more mythology, perhaps some local legend. He’s almost disappointed when she answers “To the East. Father says you can follow that road to the edges of the earth, where men speak in strange words and wear great funny hats and boots.”

Athelstan smiles encouragingly at her. She looks at him seriously. 

“They don’t have slaves there,” she says, watching his face closely. “I asked Father. He said that they don’t.”

“Oh,” Athelstan isn’t sure what to say. 

“Should you like to go there, Athelstan?” She asks, her voice stumbling only a little now over the alien syllables of his name. 

He looks down at her. There’s no point in fighting the warmth in his chest, or the tightness in his throat— he’s given up trying to, when it comes to Gyda and Bjorn.

“It sounds like a long journey,” he says. And, when she doesn’t look particularly reassured by this, “And all to visit men who wear great funny hats? They sound fearsome.”

She laughs. “More fearsome than father?”

“More fearsome even than him,” he says gravely. 

She smiles at him. And rewards him with another maple candy. 

He looks down the road in front of them while she eats the last of the sweets. His own goes slightly cool in his palm before he turns his attention back to it. He doubts that the road truly leads anywhere. Doubts that getting there would be so simple, even if it was a straight road. 

The idea of it unnerves him, though. He’s too happy to put his back to it, and follow Gyda when she hops down and suggests they head home.  

 

_But I would like to be a free man._

 

In the monastery, it had never occurred to Athelstan to wish for more. He had arrived at Lindisfarne when he was a small child, left there by his family when he was just barely able to walk. And, despite what he had said to Ragnar at first, his travels had never taken him very far from the monastery's walls. He had grown up in them and seen no need to leave them, consumed as he was by the endless cycle of prayer, work on the manuscripts, more prayer, work in the kitchens, and so on.

It was just as well he’d felt no desire to leave, as it had never really been much of an option. 

But now. Now that he is a slave. Well. It makes him think. Because thinking back to Lindisfarne, he... 

He doesn’t like to think about it, really. But the thought will come, much as he doesn’t want it. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever _been_ free. 

And the more he learns, the more he sees, the more he _wants_. Wants to have this, this thing that he never knew he was lacking for so long. Power of his own, to be his... to be his own man. To be _free_ , to glory in the word as he’s never been tempted to before. 

And he realizes the ridiculousness of it. To happen upon this desire when he is constantly, constantly reminded of his place in this world as a slave, a thrall, less than human, is. Well. 

It makes him aware of the chafing tug of a rough rope around his neck, even though the rope is long gone. Strange that the sensation had shocked him so much at first. It shouldn’t have. He’d been wearing the ghost of that rope all of his life.  

 

_If it matters so much to you._

 

“There’s nothing you can do for him,” Lagertha says firmly. She’s caught him outside again, staring up at the peak where they can just make out Ragnar’s huddled form silhouetted against a sullen grey sky. 

“I know,” Athelstan says. It comes out more bitterly than he’d meant it to. 

Lagertha looks at him appraisingly. “It’s not that you’re weak,” she says. “Or that you’re a slave.”

“Isn’t it?” Athelstan looks at her. “I know what I am. But I don’t want—”

“There’s nothing _any_ of us can do for him now,” she says firmly. “Except be there for him, for this family, when the time comes for him to act.” She puts a hand on his arm.  “Do you understand?”

Athelstan doesn’t answer. He looks back up at the mountain. 

Lagertha nods after a moment, looks back up at Ragnar, and returns to the house. 

Why should he care? What does he care if Ragnar challengers the Earl, if Ragnar lives or dies? And why should he, a man who’s spent his life worshipping the glory of God far from the rest of his creations, with no skill in battle and no worldly knowledge, feel driven to help? 

It doesn’t make any sense at all. 

 

 

_It does._

**Author's Note:**

> I think due to the short nature of the show and the uncertainty about future seasons, some stuff is getting a little rushed. And Athelstan's development within the family seemed to make some biiiig leaps between "Trial" and "Raid," so I just wanted to try and feel my way around what might have happened to get him there that we haven't seen.
> 
> I'm sparklyslug on tumblr too, come say hi and sob over tied-up monks with me there!


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